“There’s the sun beginning to go down behind the mountain,” said Fitz, evading the question. “I say, how long will it be before it’s dark?”
“Oh, you know as near as I do. Very soon, and the sooner the better. Oh, I say, she must see us. She’s heading round and coming straight in.”
“For us or the fort?”
“Both,” said Poole emphatically.
And then they waited, fancying as the last gleam of the orange sun sank out of sight that they could hear the men breathing hard with suppressed excitement, as they stood there with their sleeves rolled up, waiting for the first order which should mean hauling away at ropes and the schooner beginning to glide towards the great buoy, slackening the cable for the men in the dinghy to cast-off.
“Here, look at that!” cried Fitz excitedly, unconsciously identifying himself more and more with the crew.
“What’s the matter?” said Poole.
“Wet your hand, and hold it up.”
“Right,” said Poole; “and so was old Burgess. I don’t believe there’s a man at sea knows more about the wind than he does. Half-an-hour ago, dead to sea; now right ashore.”
“Stand by, my lads,” growled the boatswain in response to a word from the mate; and a deep low sigh seemed to run all across the deck, as to a man the crew drew in a deep long breath, while with the light rapidly dying out, and the golden tips of the mountains turning purple and then grey, the first order was given, a couple of staysails ran with jigging motion up to their full length, and a chirruping, creaking sound was heard as the men began to haul upon the yard of the mainsail.